


wishbone

by peacefrog



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Breathplay, Choking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: “I don’t love you,” Will says, wielding his words like a weapon.
Hannibal doesn’t respond or flinch, doesn’t speak. He sits rod straight in his chair and watches flames dance in the fireplace. They paint his features amber-gold, wisps of firelight like talons clawing down his face.
Will retires to his own bed before supper, sour stomach in knots and head a pitiful mess of noise and static.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tagging this mildly dubious consent just in case. Although it was not my intent with the scene in question, it can be read that way.

I swear, I end up  
feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search  
my body for the scars, thinking _Did he find that one last tender place to_  
_sink his teeth in?_ —Richard Siken

—

“I don’t love you,” Will says, wielding his words like a weapon.

Hannibal doesn’t respond or flinch, doesn’t speak. He sits rod straight in his chair and watches flames dance in the fireplace. They paint his features amber-gold, wisps of firelight like talons clawing down his face.

Will retires to his own bed before supper, sour stomach in knots and head a pitiful mess of noise and static.

—

His words are all he has, Will knows, spitting them like venom and swallowing down the backwash poison. “I’m sickened just to look at you,” he says, pushing eggs and bacon around his plate with the tines of his fork. “I should call Jack Crawford and tell him where to find you. I won’t ever have to look at you again.”

Hannibal takes a measured breath and sips his coffee slow. “Perhaps you should,” he says, calm, or perhaps entirely defeated.

Will doesn’t pick up the phone. He chops wood in the yard until his shoulder aches and then he chops some more. When his lungs begin to burn something awful he swings the axe down into the chopping block and turns toward the house, huffing clouds into the late autumn air. Hannibal is watching him from the open door, gaunt face pale and tired. He doesn’t move or tear his eyes away, even as Will pushes past him into the house.

—

“Do you think about fucking me?” Will asks, a half bottle of whisky pumping in his veins.

“Are you truly seeking an answer, or more ammunition for your already loaded gun?”

Will laughs and downs the contents of his glass. “You don’t have to answer, Hannibal. I know that you do.” He fills his glass again and gulps it down, whisky dribbling from his lips and into his beard. “And I know that I’m never going to let you.”

Hannibal leaves Will there in front of the flames, drinking until the bottle’s empty, the void of firelight swallowing him whole.

—

Will twists his wedding band around on his finger. He can’t see it in the darkened corridor of the hall, but the weight of it covers him like a shroud spun from gold. He stops when he reaches the light of Hannibal’s study, orange glow roaring out into the hall.

Hannibal sits at his desk sketching, back to the open door. He doesn’t turn around as Will enters.

“I miss my wife.” Will leans back against the doorframe, eyes boring into the back of Hannibal’s skull. “My son.”

Hannibal’s back straightens, a nearly imperceptible change of posture, but his hand never ceases its fluid movement. “We can pay them a visit if you’d like. Do you think she’d be happy to see you?”

“I could go back on my own. Leave you here to sketch away your days in solitude. Alone in that pathetic palace you call memory.”

Graphite darkens paper, the melodic scratch of a pencil tip the only sound filling the room. Hannibal’s shoulders rise slow and even, breaths as steady as his hand. A moment later he stills and drops the pencil. It rolls off onto the hardwood floor, the slant of the house sending it straight toward Will’s feet. 

“So do it then.”

—

Will doesn’t cry, too stubborn to admit that he probably needs to. He lies in bed and chokes on his anger. At Hannibal for digging claws into his heart, at himself for allowing it to be ripped away so easily. He cannot take back his forgiveness, but he can hold onto his white-hot rage until it burns them both alive.

Will follows the scent of lunch from his room to the kitchen. It smells good, like blood orange and thyme. “I don’t want to eat anything you’ve cooked anymore. Who knows what you’re slipping in there.”

Hannibal continues to prepare two plates. A green salad with colorful pops of citrus and thinly sliced salmon. “You need to eat. You’ve only just gotten your strength back.”

Will pulls out cheese and bread and makes a sad little sandwich there on the counter, carefully leaving a trail of crumbs behind. Hannibal cleans them up without a word. Will sits at the table and eats in front of his untouched plate that Hannibal sets before him.

Will flatly glares at Hannibal as he chews. “You haven’t killed anyone in a while. Not since the Dragon. I imagine that must be difficult for you.”

Hannibal pauses before he can fork the next bite of green between his lips. “Killing isn’t a compulsion for me.”

“Please. Eldon Stammets. Garret Jacob Hobbs. Clark Ingram. You’re all the same.”

Hannibal sets his fork down neatly beside his plate. “Are you the same, Will? You’ve taken a life. More than once. You’ve dripped in moon-black blood and called it beautiful.”

Will grits his teeth and washes back the flood of memories with another bland bite of his sandwich. “I lied.”

“You didn’t.” Hannibal skewers an orange segment with his fork and pops it into his mouth. “You’re cruel for cruelty’s sake. You revel in watching the bruises form under your words.”

Will finishes his sandwich in silence and pushes back from the table. He locks himself in the dark prison of his bedroom for the remainder of the day, staring at the ceiling and pressing fingertips into the scar tissue gashed across his belly.

—

The next morning Will ventures to the kitchen for coffee. Hannibal is standing at the counter holding a knife, though not chopping anything.

He turns to Will, offering the handle of the blade. “You can make it all go away,” he says, pressing his belly right up against the tip of the knife once it’s in Will’s hand. “Return to your family, the simple life of a husband and mechanic. A father who thinks of killing nothing but the spider out of reach of tiny hands.”

Will’s hand grows wet and shakes against the smooth steel handle. The blade puckers the front of Hannibal’s crisp white shirt. “I don’t need permission to kill you. Your life is mine to take when I see fit.” His voice quivers, too small for the words he’s forcing himself to convey.

Hannibal smiles and it’s all teeth. He pushes his body hard onto the blade, until the faintest trickle of blood seeps through the cotton of his shirt. “Should I help you ease the way? Fall onto it and into your arms? Just hold still, now.”

Will snatches the blade away and drops it onto the floor behind him just as Hannibal begins pressing in with more of his weight. Hannibal nearly crashes into Will but steadies himself on the counter and pulls back. He’s still smiling as Will turns away.

The tears that sting in Will’s eyes can’t be contained. He lets them flow down his cheeks and dry salty against his lips. “Stop it.” His voice cracks as he white knuckles the edge of the counter. “Just stop.”

Hannibal grips Will’s shoulder. “Will.”

Will shoves him off with such force that Hannibal goes stumbling back into the refrigerator. Will huffs out his frustration, tears hot as he snarls and turns around. He lunges for Hannibal against the fridge, wrapping a hand around his neck and pinning him there.

“I hate you.”

Hannibal swallows hard against Will’s grip. “Do you find it easier this way? Fighting against yourself? Fighting against so many hard earned truths?”

Will’s other hand joins the first. He squeezes until Hannibal’s face turns a bright shade of crimson and his eyes go wide before easing off. Hannibal’s body is limp and pliant. “You disgust me.”

Hannibal smiles again, laughing darkly as much as he can with Will’s hands still wrapped around his neck. “When you say the words, do you begin to believe them?” Hannibal’s knee comes out and presses right in between Will’s legs, riding up until it’s sitting just beneath his erection. An erection Will hadn’t noticed over the rush of blood in his ears and the growing ache in his chest. “How our bodies betray us.”

Will kicks Hannibal’s leg away and begins to squeeze again. He dares a glance and sees that Hannibal is hard too, the front of his slacks tented with the obscene jut of his cock. Death has always been akin to foreplay for them. He should have seen this coming.

Will lets his hands fall down and pulls Hannibal away from the fridge. Hannibal goes where Will sends him, down to his knees and then sprawled on his back on the tile floor in a matter of seconds. Will straddles Hannibal’s lap and tears at his shirt.

“Don’t speak. I don’t want to hear a single word coming out of your mouth.”

Will presses his fingers to the small knick where the knife sunk in on Hannibal’s abdomen. He gathers a dab of blood and smears it across Hannibal’s bottom lip. Hannibal’s pupils are blown wide, eyes dark voids swallowing the light. Will drags the blood down to Hannibal’s chin and then begins working his belt loose. When Hannibal’s pants are pulled down low enough to free his cock, Will removes his own pants and reaches for the olive oil on the counter.

Bottomless, in his sock feet and shirt, Will straddles Hannibal again and slicks his own fingers with the oil. He roughly shoves one finger into his hole, shortly followed by a second and a third. He doesn’t look in Hannibal’s eyes, focusing instead on the red ring circling his neck, the space where blood blossoms on his belly.

Will is so painfully hard by the time he slicks himself open that his whole body is trembling. He grips Hannibal’s cock with one hand and covers his mouth with the other, easing himself down onto it with short thrusts of his hips. Hannibal is thicker than Will expected and he revels in the burn once he’s fully seated. He lets it fill him up in place of the anger, holding onto the sting like something precious.

Will’s now free hand finds its way back to Hannibal’s neck, the other remaining over his mouth. Hannibal huffs hot breath into Will’s palm. Will grips Hannibal’s throat as he begins to move, fucking himself open as he steals Hannibal’s voice, the very air he struggles to take in.

For his part, Hannibal fucks up into Will like a flesh-starved animal, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that Will is pulling him right up to the edge between life and death. Will grips tighter, pulls the hand from Hannibal’s mouth and uses both to circle his neck. It only makes Hannibal buck his hips wild with abandon, fucking Will open frantic with each passing second.

Soon Hannibal’s rhythm falters and slows. When his lips begin to purple Will pulls his hands away. He gasps desperately for air. Will steadies his hands on Hannibal’s heaving chest and continues to spear himself open, thrusting down hard and deep, eking out that beautiful friction striking his prostate like a hammer seeking sparks.

When Will comes, it’s agony, orgasm rolling in and digging every drop of rage right out of his chest. He spills all over Hannibal’s belly, cock untouched, Hannibal’s fingers digging deep into his hips. Hannibal follows him over the edge shortly after, spilling into Will with a warm flood that seeks to fill up all that has been lost.

Will pulls up until Hannibal’s softening length falls from his body. He slumps back against the cold steel of the refrigerator, the whole world spinning around him.

“May I speak?” Hannibal’s voice comes out like gravel, fingertip bruises already forming around his neck.

Will answers with a lazy nod, all the fight drained out of him.

“I will allow you to continue hurting me, if it’s what you truly want. I’ll be your heavy bag in every sense if that’s what you need.”

Will gazes down at Hannibal on the floor, disheveled and bruised, marked with Will’s come straight up to his chest. “I don’t think I want to hurt you,” he says, meek and tired. He’s suddenly so very tired. “I think maybe I’m just punishing myself. Rejecting… everything that I’ve become. Everything that I know I am.”

“One final fight to the death.”

“We’ve tried that, Hannibal. Too many times. Yet here we are, alive to suffer another day together.”

Hannibal sits up, soft and vulnerable. “Should our days together require suffering? Is that all there is for us?”

Will gazes down at his own hands. “Seems to be all we know.”

Hannibal reaches over for Will’s hand, covering it with his own on Will’s thigh. “We needn’t kill anyone ever again.”

“You don’t really want that.”

“I want you.” Hannibal’s words come out the softest whisper. He looks so small there on the floor, pants bunched around his knees, eyes pleading.

“Yeah, well... you’ve already got me. Always have.”

—

Days pass between them with no cruelty, just a careful dance devoid of words or pleasure, but devoid of pain as well. They don’t talk about it. Hannibal seems happy to wait forever for Will to steer them toward the horizon of his choosing.

Late one night, after dinner, Will corners Hannibal in the darkened hall outside the kitchen. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you,” he says, tracing the ridge of Hannibal’s lips with a fingertip. “Much easier on my heart than forcing myself to hate.”

“You don’t hate me.”

“Never have. Even when you made me suffer unspeakably. Can’t change it anymore than I can the tides.”

Hannibal rests his hands gently on Will’s hips. “Where are we to go from here?”

“I don’t know.” Will steps closer into Hannibal’s space, close enough to make out his eyes in the dark. “Pretty sure we’re doomed. Or damned. It’s all going to catch up with us eventually. Can’t run forever. But I suppose we don’t have to hurt each other while we do.”

“Hurt isn’t always a bad thing, when taken in moderation.” Hannibal still has bruises on his neck. He touches a finger to them. “Hurt can spring from pleasure, pleasure from hurt.”

“Are you saying you want me to choke you again?”

Hannibal’s smile stretches wide on his shadowed face. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it. You’re more powerful than you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Will cradles Hannibal’s stubbled cheeks and leans in. “Kiss me.”

Hannibal meets Will’s lips with a gentle whimper, the most tender touch they’ve ever shared. Will sighs into his mouth and allows Hannibal to take him into his arms. It’s soft and easy, too easy, Will thinks. Perhaps too much thinking is what’s gotten them into so much trouble.

Will pushes all thought from his mind and kisses Hannibal slow, melting into what they’ve become together.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com)!


End file.
